Page 23 of Their Master

“And no more lies about growing up in London.”

Moira was momentarily unnerved that he’d uncovered her first lie so quickly. The story about being raised in England had been for prospective employers rather than Smith, and Marie had said it didn’t matter if he saw through. “A man like Smith will enjoy snooping and catching you in a lie or two, being such a liar, himself,”she’d assured Moira.

She could only hope the other falsehoods her mother had concocted wouldn’t be so easy to detect.

“I’m sorry I lied,” she said after a long pause. “It was necessary for my safety.”

“Oh?”

“My name isn’t Moira Dunsmuir. It’s Catherine Duvalle.”

“I thought I detected a slight accent.”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m from France, but what I told you about my grandmother coming from Scotland is true. My mother spoke English to me when I was growing up, so that is why I am fluent. Moira is my middle name and Dunsmuir was my grandmother’s maiden name, but I grew up in Marseilles.”

“And you left your life behind to move to London. Do you have friends here? Family?”

Moira shook her head. “No, I am alone here.”

“How intrepid you are,” he said, a slight smile on his lips.

“Not really. I had to move. You see, I got into trouble there.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I borrowed money I couldn’t repay. Fleeing to Paris wasn’t far enough; I needed to leave the country. I knew the men looking for me would not think I’d leave France because they don’t speak English and wouldn’t consider it themselves.”

“So, you are a wanted criminal, are you?” His eyes glinted with amusement rather than condemnation.

“Well, maybe not a criminal, although I suppose most people consider evading one’s debts criminal behavior.”

“I suppose they might.”

“You are mocking me.”

“A little,” he admitted. “Should I call you Catherine, instead of Moira?”

“I would prefer you continued to call me Moira. Madam Cecile doesn’t know there are men after me or she never would have consented to hire me.” Moira gave him a worried look that wasn’t entirely feigned. “You won’t tell her, will you?”

“No, I won’t tell her that you are using a fake name,” he said with an odd smile.

Moira could only assume he was thinking of his own assumed name and how few people knew his real one.

Rather than pursue the matter, as she’d feared, he asked, “How are you finding London?”

At least this was a question she could answer honestly. “Cold, rainy, and gray.”

“That does not sound like the endorsement of a person who will stay here long.”

If only he knew how short her duration would hopefully be, and how it would coincide with his departure.

“What about you? How long have you lived here?” she asked him.

“Most of my life.”

“Where did you move here from?” Moira was genuinely interested because Smith’s history wasn’t something theComteor Marie had ever shared.

But Smith wasn’t sharing, either.

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